


floodwaters

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [73]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Implied Suicide Attempt, M/M, Vent writing that got out of hand, headcanons galore, implied one sided attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25944304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Finally wrote vent thatactuallymakes me feel better.
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Series: DS Extras [73]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 3
Kudos: 40





	floodwaters

**Author's Note:**

> Finally wrote vent that _actually_ makes me feel better.

Higgsbury found him out in the middle of the woods.

Of course he would, Maxwell thought, and the bitterness ate through his chest like acid, steaming and raw and agonizing. The other man always seemed to find him, no matter where he went, how far away he ran.

At this point, he didn't know if he should be grateful. Lost causes do not grow beyond the rock bottom, obviously.

Still, he did not feign any sort of half interest in being followed, found, standing like this in some grove of pines and the smallest of clearings. The sun was at its pinnacle, and it's usual yolky exterior had let up from what he had originally made of it, twisted now as the Constant changed; he often wondered if it could be mistaken for the true celestial object now, with how warm and strong it has become under the Queens reign.

His hatred for that knew no bounds, and yet Maxwell found himself staying put, letting the rays wash over him. It was warm, and the heat burrowed down to his very bones, drove away the chill and aches and pains he's grown so accustomed to nowadays. The chronic soreness that the Throne had gifted to him could only be held back by so little, and walking away, moving into the trees shadows looked far, far less appealing than just...staying here.

Even as footsteps approached, at first a light jog and then slowing, easing up in barely contained relief, Maxwell did not move on. 

His eyes were closed, and his knees ached from standing so stiffly but his back was warming up under the light, suit jacket absorbing the heat, slinking itself low to his limbs and here, now, was one of those few times where he almost, _almost_ felt near content enough with life.

It would jolt awake again soon, bite him with sharp fangs and remind him of all that was and had been, what will be, but right now, underneath the sunrays and warming his very bones, Maxwell could slide his thoughts away from the growing dark weights in his chest and try to enjoy the outward world of the living.

Wilson didn't speak up immediately, slowed to a stop behind him, watching, waiting.

When he finally spoke, minutes passing by as Maxwell strictly ignored him in favor of soaking up the heat and warmth he so rarely found, his voice was soft, quiet, and oh so very blunt.

Like always, cutting through the frivolities and straight to the point.

"I found your note." The softest sound, of shifting weight, that brief hint of nervous energy before being swallowed up by focus and determination, and that ever thickening worry, clogging the air and thick enough to cut. "In one of the chests by my tent, under the blueprints."

A pause, thinking, and Maxwell clenched and unclenched his hands, stretched the worn gloves and the sharpened talons he had hidden away under there, the joints of his fingers achingly sore even as the leather warmed up. 

"...You couldn't have put it in a better spot? I would have found it quicker if you left it on the pillow."

"That was never my intention."

Maxwell spoke in a clipped, short manner, voice emotionless and cut off, masked away. There was no viable reason, for him to put the effort into this interaction. The only reason he had slowed down enough to get found was the sun's presence, and the warmth he let wrap about his bones, curl around his spine and seep deeper than the marrow of his very body.

He had no wish to have this conversation, never did in the first place.

"Then what was, huh?" A hint of aggravation, frustration lacing through tone and air, and he could almost imagine it, Wilson behind him with arms folded, that oh so familiar frown scrawled on his face. "For me to find it days from now, weeks? Never know what happened, worry myself silly about where you went or what had happened or if you're alright-"

"Enough, Higgsbury!" Maxwell swung around, the tips of his gloved claws curled tight and pressing hard to his palms, pinpricks of faint, so very faint pain, and his jaw grit tight and his snaggled teeth bared in a plain, easily understood snarl. "What do you want?"

"What do you think I want?!" The other man challenged back, stance shifting aggressive, shoulders stiff and fists held at his sides, tense as that scowl wrinkled his face into something stony and harsh. "What do _you_ think I'm out here doing, Maxwell!?"

A beat of silence, as Maxwell glared down and Wilson glared up, but his stubbornness won out and the other man snorted, displeased and aggravated as he looked away for the briefest of moments.

"What am I supposed to do, when I find a note telling me my partner is leaving?" A sigh now, heaved and strained and laced with something else, something Maxwell almost couldn't identify. "What did you expect me to do, Max?"

Wilson's voice had quieted, hushed, and yet Maxwell snarled even more so now, the faint strain of a headache blooming to the back of his skull, and not even the sun's warmth could drive that away. 

"To have _reading comprehension_ , Higgsbury." The bite of his voice made the other man jerk his head up and meet his eye, and his own pitch black gaze glittered dangerously, sharp and narrow compared to the stern twisted gray clouds of his partners eyes. "I thought I made myself explicitly clear, and I had thought you'd be at the learning level to understand what was written."

"Oh, I understood alright, I read it just fine, even with your chicken scratch handwriting." There was a pang of offense at that, but Wilson spoke on, steamrolled forward as he glared up at Maxwell, even going so far as to fold his arms and take a firm step forward, staring him down. "I found and read your little letter, went so far as to use daylight hours to track you down, and what do I get at the end of the trail!?"

Wilson's tone had steadily risen the more he spoke, louder now, and this time Maxwell couldn't deny the intensity of raw rage laced throughout, simmering under the surface and brimming at the edge. 

"I get your irrational ass standing out in the middle of nowhere, being more stubborn, more aggravating than ever, and when I ask a simple question you fucking _mock_ me!"

"Whatever else would I do?!" Maxwell snapped back, and the general tone had shifted, even his own tempered voice had shifted, turned sharp and biting, thrumming with barely contained anger. "Since you obviously disregarded _my_ words, chose to not follow _my_ advice, chose to completely ignore _my_ wishes, and now come storming after me as if I've committed another atrocity that _must_ be fixed by useless confrontation-"

"I'm not going to let you kill yourself, Maxwell!"

The silence dropped like a stone, an anchor, filled the space between the trees and swallowed up whatever faint warming comforts the sun had previously been providing. For a few moments, a long, uninterrupted minute, it was very, very quiet.

Wilson moved, ever so slightly, a half step forward with a hesitance in his movements that spoke of caution, as if Maxwell would spook if given the chance.

Maybe he would, he thought, eyes narrowed and glaring, mouth a thin line and wrinkled expression bared into a mask of blankness, only a stiff set of his jaw, the pull of his face into a scowl unmatched in hostile expressionless neutrality. Faintly, very faintly his bones ached, the slightest of trembles to his shoulders, fists held tight to his sides, and he glared at the other man, glared at his every movement, the faintest of flickering emotion he could not, _would_ not identify crossing that determined face.

"...I'm not that oblivious, Max, and I can't just stand by and watch-"

"What makes you think such things, Higgsbury?" His voice cut like knives through the fragile silence, cut through his own throat in tugging sharp pulls, and he ignored the faint waver that almost graced him, hardened it into a harsh blade of a tone, hardened into spines and needles and spear filled pit trap that hedged outwards and rose his voice into the familiar curve of a spoken weapon. "Honestly, pal, I wonder how you've gotten this far with such a lack of forethought inside that skull of yours, lauding yourself as genius when your simple mind can't even understand what's written before you-"

"Knock it off, Maxwell. I can read just fine." Wilsons voice was stern, focused now as the anger bled low and simmered below the surface, but Maxwell pushed on, his snarl quirking up in a macabre grimace that his pitch black eyes did not reflect, and his tone rose too, curving sharp and mockingly, sarcastically.

"Are you sure about that, pal? I seem to recall just how difficult the plain act of _writing_ can be for you, you've spoken of such great lengths of _letters_ moving about pages, an artful delusion that must haunt you for hours at a time. What a laughable idea then, isn't it, to think you can _read_ anything and even wholeheartedly understand it-"

"Your note left no mistakes to be made-"

"And how did you figure that out now, hm?" Maxwell practically crowed this, voice rising in the thrum of hysterical knots that had coiled in his chest, and he drew upon that masked panic with everything he had now. "You can't read near anything worth a damn, Higgsbury, and you know it! What makes you think that-"

"Then why leave the note at all?"

That one caught the words in Maxwell's throat, pausing in response as he processed that, and the quiet moment eased the tense air for a brief, crucial minute. 

"...You know that your handwriting isn't difficult for me, Max." Wilson moved slow, careful, a few steps before stopping in front of him, and that anger wasn't even visible on his face anymore, only an expression of concentration, focus and that ever thickening worry. "I can read between the lines."

"I…" Maxwell could only hold the stare for a few seconds, eyes darting to the ground as his lips curled, and his voice came out with heavy enunciation, lingering on each word with emphasis. " _I_ did _not_ write of my death."

"You didn't have to." Wilsons voice had quieted, softened down as Maxwell kept his gaze lowered, the previous harsh air dying down now into something more lulled, bated breath. "Or, not so obviously, anyhow. Words along the lines of 'inhabiting another, far emptier Constant' and 'enduring solitude for just a bit longer' sort of paint an unpleasant picture."

Maxwells face fell, the wobbling grimace tipping deeper into a plain frown, pulling low at his face and, somehow, for a moment, his shoulders untensed, the stiffness draining out in one swift flow that left the old man appearing far, far older and weakened than before.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have written one in the first place." 

"I wouldn't have found you otherwise." 

That seemed to settle something dark in Maxwell's chest, darker and heavier as he hissed a low, silent sigh, crossing his arms about his chest and completely, entirely avoiding looking at the other man. Internally he admonished himself for his mistake, a solidifying acknowledgment to not do so again any time soon, and now the sunlight could do nothing to the faint ripples of cold that had settled within his bones, the faintest of vainly fought shivers and the ensuing aches and pains he's grown so used to feeling nowadays.

The high mania of arguing had drained, flushed away and left the aftershocks of faded adrenaline, and now he stood here before the other man, stood here alone and lapsing in what he had thought would be such a simple task for himself to follow. He's gotten so sidetracked that the sun was starting its slow fall down to the horizon now, just breached and rolled over the climax of its arch, and the dull crimson lighting would catch up soon enough, be warning of future nightfall.

Wilson shifted before him, one foot to another, and Maxwell did not even so much as glance at him.

"...Do you want to head back to camp with me?"

"No."

More silence, after that, though it seemed to still Wilsons fidgeting somewhat. 

There was movement, faint and slow and not quite crossing his threshold of acknowledging up until there were suddenly hands at his arms, the faintest of touches to his sleeves as dark bone talons spread in quiet scrapes of sound, and the suddenness had him lean back and pull his arm away in what would have been one smooth move of surprise and hissing offense-

Had Wilson not acted quicker, clawed hands snaking forward in a bolt that had his talons wrapping about Maxwell's wrists. 

"What are you-"

"Do you want to tell me why?"

Maxwell froze, gaze caught in with the firm look Wilson was giving him, staring eye to eye, the other man's voice stern and determined and without break, no hesitance or lulling caution; Wilson's voice was very, very serious, and offered no chance of misinterpretation. 

That didn't mean Maxwell didn't try however.

" 'Why' what, Higgsbury?" A quiver of an almost smirk pulled on the corner of his lips, but Wilson continued to look up at him, unwavering eye contact, claws holding firm and careful to Maxwell's thin wrists. He tried again anyway, mustering in a slightly stuttered breath of air, fighting the phantom panic response to the pressure about his wrists, fighting the sudden pounding of his own heart in his ears, rotten and weak, pathetic as it was. "Do I really have to inform you, _again_ , of the inhospitality that horrid excuse of a camp has for me-"

"Stop it."

Maxwell stopped, voice caught in his throat like a rolled lump of gagged weight, swallowing it down fitfully and with effort that wanted to be spoken allowed, his slight rise in tone now cut off, the frustrated agitation easing back from how he had almost, nearly called it into fruition.

Wilson stared up at him, eyes narrowed and as if, as if _searching_ his own pitch black gaze, hands firm and clammy to Maxwell's wrists, curled atop worn sleeves and the edge of the long thinned leather gloves. When the man spoke it was in a hushed voice, a quiet yet firm, serious air that lent to the silence around them, the pale sunlight and the listening trees.

" _Can_ you tell me why, Maxwell?" A pause, and Maxwell drew in a breath, another fitful attempt at misdirection or antagonizing on his tongue that died the instant Wilson's hands shifted, moved upwards carefully, enough so that those clawed thumbs curled into his own palms and, ever so slightly, moved in soft, shallow circles, touch. 

The silence held with bated breath, and Maxwell's own lungs flagged, shallow inhales, even shallower exhales, and he couldn't keep eye contact, not anymore, not to a gaze that was searching, _beseeching_ him for something that he knew he did not house within himself. Instead his gaze traveled low, settled to his own hands, held out, held by another pair darkened by shadow influence and curled with the self same talons he too possessed underneath his covering gloves.

"...Don't I deserve to know?" Wilson said, softly, a whisper even besides for the level of firm, focused strength backing it, the even firmer hope and, somehow, in someway, a thin vein of trust. "After all that has happened between us, everything you and I know of each other and what we have gone through together, have I not earned that Knowledge of my very own partner?"

That knocked the air from Maxwell's lungs, just the way that it was said, constructed, and he had to close his eyes, suck in a shaky inhale between his clenched jagged teeth, and his fingers twitched, the tremor in them now all too noticeable.

He almost, almost let himself clutch back, curl his own hands and hold tight, but he was able to fight that off, withstand the urge, the temptation.

It must be so ironic, that of all things this was the one he could resist. Shadows and the Codex and Their ugly whispered promises, the Thrones loving embrace and encouraging coos, and instead _this_ is what he had the strength to fight himself on.

How pathetic of him.

"I...I can't." For a moment his voice flagged, staggeringly weak and almost whimpered before Maxwell hissed in a deep inhale, straining from the pressure of the usual boundary his breathing always hit.

A pause, in the silence, and Maxwell kept his eyes closed, fought the withering thread that had rotted itself into his chest, that knotted clawing thing that bit and tore and _screamed_ , but he swallowed it down and away, to sink below his chest, sink well below himself and his sense of self. Bottled and shoved back down, as usual, as normal, and his next breath was eased up a bit now, stabilized as he circled the edge of truly giving in and letting the waves drown him out.

Not yet, and if he had his way not ever.

Faintly he felt movement, squinted his eyes just enough to catch sight of Wilson nodding, a low look on his face, unreadable, before Maxwell stiffened up as those clawed hands finally rose up fully to clasp to his own, a step forward and weight against his chest as the other man leaned up against him. 

Wild greasy hair brushed against him, the soft warm breath exhaled against his neck and throat, and those clawed hands squeezed his as Wilson heaved a heavy sigh.

"That's….it's okay, Max." His voice was low, murmured against his skin in a slow, soothing tone, familiar and calming enough to have Maxwell shutter in another breath, exhale it heavy before doing so again, and again, and again. Slowly those claws unhooked from his hands, light brushes passing by over his palms, before Maxwell tensed up when they suddenly wrapped about him, firm and tight and assuring.

It was enough, again, to almost steal his breath away, meshed close to the other man with locks of dark hair tangled in that odd hairstyle, brushing against his face and obscuring his rather blurry sight, which went a hint blurrier as his next breath shuddered through him. Maxwells own hands hovered, useless and aimless, crushed tight together to another warm body, a warm body he knew so deeply well, and after only a few strainingly overwhelmed moments he was able to wrap his own arms about his partner, gloved hands tangling into his crimson vest and burying himself completely and thoroughly against Wilson.

His next breath was even worse off, his chest constricting, and that knot inside him, that stalling wave of harsh currents and rotten self consuming bitterness, it lapped in far too close and heady for a few more moments, almost, almost breaking over the crumbling ruin walls he's constricted oh so long ago. It left him in a trembling mess, air whistling in his straining lungs, shivering and pressed as close, as tightly as he could get against the other man, the only one here.

It was enough to wrangle his voice back, fighting the choking upheave and shoving, pushing back down the encroaching wash of ugly hatred that pulsed deep within his chest, threatening, almost breaching, but he struggled in a breath, hands tightly clawed into that damnably familiar red vest and the damnably familiar stocky body that wore it, and Maxwell forced the words out of his flagging sense of self.

"W-what...what o-of you?" It hurt, in some deeply unsettling way, that his voice wobbled and stuttered and all he could do was force in air, exhale out in a stressed heave that felt as if treading the edge between two deep, dark abysses, two threatening promises that had him want to cling tighter, want to hide away and hold against the only man who was ever here with him. "Why...w-why do you..."

"...Stay?" Wilson spoke up for him, quiet like and hummed against his neck, and there was no threading wobble to his own voice, nothing but a hushed calm, an eye of the storm that Maxwell was desperately trying to cling so tightly to. It wasn't quite a laugh, or chuckle or anything really, just an exhale of sound as Wilson very, very slightly shifted, a shake to his head, and those hands squeezed around him, a reassuring pressure for a moment. "Why wouldn't I, Max?"

It wasn't quite entirely serious now, a low soothing tone as Wilson held him, reassurances and comforting touch in a familiar pattern he's grown more used to, but this time Maxwell ducked his head, squeezed his eyes shut tighter as a horrid prickling rose to them, a thickening bile to the back of his throat and the faint pounding to the low of his skull and mind. He held tighter, knowing it wasn't nearly tight enough, knowing his own flagging strength, his inner weakness that tainted all he did, as it had from the beginning of his life to this nonsensical end, and it was taking so much now, to keep his head above the rising waters, fight back the flood and shove it down as he has always done.

When he spoke again it was strained, clogging his raw throat, but he tried anyway, tried to voice, give the words to the air and maybe, _maybe_ Wilson will be able to read them far better and listen to them far more than to the note left in that old chest under piles of scribbled old blueprints.

"B-because you, you d-don't...you…"

Then again, perhaps Maxwell put too much hope into his own damn self, even now. He shuddered in another near whimpered breath, silent and rattling sound within his aching lungs, and his limbs felt weak now, oh so weak as his previous desperate strength drained, and now he admonished himself, on his own lacking sense of self. He didn't think he could say all that should be said, not without the stagnant flood inside him overflowing and choking out everything else, built and building for so, so very long now, and if he had his way he'd never let it go, never let it out.

He can't. He just can't.

But, he was always underestimating, always missing what was so clearly in front of his nose. Wilson had said that he was good at reading between the lines, especially when it was _Maxwell's_.

A slow movement, adjustment as one hand suddenly was rubbing firm circles to his back, comforting touch that made him shiver and shudder and choke against the vile knotting disaster that was hidden inside his chest, lapping up his throat, and when Wilson spoke his voice was deeply thoughtful, deeply centered and calm, entirely focused upon Maxwell in nearly every way. Pressure drifted, and Maxwell squinted his eyes open the slightest bit, watery dampness clinging to the corners of his eyes, and Wilson had leaned ever so slightly back, was looking at him once again, hands still wrapped about Maxwell's sides and holding firm.

"...I would be here no matter what, Maxwell. I would always be here, right here with you, and nothing would change that." Wilsons voice softened, and his gaze drifted, fell a moment in deep thought, but thought that was well trodden, known and familiarized. His hands kept steady, firm, and Maxwell's gloved hands were tangled tight and clinging still, no matter the words, no matter the assurances-

"It doesn't matter whether I love you or not, Maxwell. I'll be here for you all the same."

That was a bit much this time, always so damnably _blunt_ , reading the lines Maxwell himself had only half heartedly understood, and for a moment that flood came back up in a surge that choked his chest, crushed whatever pitiful thing that was left of his heart and shuddered deeper and deeper into his very bones, rushed through his veins and stole his control for only a split second.

He did not acknowledge the tears, the bubbling and heaved half sobs, unclawing one hand from that red vest and pressing it hard against his mouth, the faint pricks of his teeth to his wrinkled knuckles as he choked and gasped for air, eyes shut tight and curling back, within himself-

Wilsons arms were firm, rose up and pulled him in tight once more, and he shuddered, trembling as the inner build up of sickness coursed its way through him. For a few critical moments he fought it, pushed back against the collapsing walls of his so very old, ruined foundations, but then it flipped and crushed and was swept away and Maxwell found himself full on sobbing against the only person left who would still offer him a shoulder to cry upon.

The floodwaters rushed in, engorged from ages upon ages of bottled emotion and raw age old terrors and consequences, but not even his bitter hatred for himself could keep it all back, too much and too quick, all at once in a crumbling ruin as the long ago former Nightmare King fell apart piece by rotten piece.

Faintly his strength tried to hold, _how pitiful_ , but Wilson murmured incomprehensible comforting nothings into his ear, held him and even, very slowly, started to rock his sobbing self back and forth, and it was all crushed and dashed against the rugged rocky debris of his long gone sense of self and purpose, crushed to less than dust, less than salty sand, less than what the Constant and all its lingering shadows had been, once upon a time long, long ago.

His knees gave out at some point, legs turning to less than jelly and held up only by the sheer strength and will of the other man before they both slid down to kneel in the grass, and Wilson continued to hold him, the anchor and eye to the storm, holding close and firm and not letting go, not letting Maxwell slip away in the quiet ways he usually so aimed to enact. Sobbing, practically wailing against the man's shoulder, and it _hurt_ , it all _hurt_ as it surged out of him.

A foul taste was left in its wake, shuddering as he whimpered near silently against his partners shoulder, hands clutching tight and body collapsed forward and everything in him weak and worthless and as terribly unfit for anything as he's ever been.

He had understood Wilsons words, perhaps too well even; it was damning, to know and acknowledge the strength of how unlovable one was to another.

His face was disgustingly damp, the shirt and vest and shoulder he had buried his face to even more so, but Wilson still held him, still rocked him in slow, soothing motions, hands still wrapped about him and calmingly rubbing his back, humming low wordless sounds to whatever tune the other man still remembered in his genius of a mind.

As the sounds of his defeat finally drifted silent, leaving only the watching trees, a faint breeze whispering between them and the slowly descending sun, now visibly falling in a steady slow descent to the horizon, Maxwell shuddered in a chill breath, and then let it out with the rattle of his exhausted lungs. The darkness of his eyelids was one of the few comforts he could give himself, and it was so brief, the absence of emotion that the flood had left in its wake.

For a brief moment, in a light headed state of apathy and emptiness, only Wilson's warm presence, his firm hands keeping him tied down to reality, Maxwell could almost envision what a permanent, perfect nothingness would be like.

And then it slowly filled back once again, lapped low and at the cusp of the bottom of his chest, the hollow of his inner skull, and Maxwell heaved a deep, draining sigh. The absence of everything besides just _Wilson_ was overgrown once more by his sense of disgust and shame, collapsed like this in a mess unfit for someone who had once been King of the Constant, but…

Maxwell didn't think he could force himself up just yet. 

His grip on the other man had loosened up a bit, faintly tangled to his vest, brushed to his greasy dark hair, and with every breath Maxwell could take in the very air of his partner, of Wilson, inhale and exhale and maybe, just maybe pretend that the gaping emptiness left inside him, a scar now drained of abscess infection, could be healed over this time.

Of course, a part of him already knew this was untrue. This wouldn't be enough, and it hurt to think of, a betrayal of sorts, but he already knew very well that _Wilson_ would never be enough.

It was experience that told him that, and Maxwell sighed again, softer, soaking in the warmth and touch and comfort offered to him as he accepted the inevitable.

The forest was silent, all around them, and Maxwell felt jarringly drained, emptied of the hurt and pain he has orbited inside himself for a long, long time.

"...It'll be dark soon."

Wilson's voice was still quiet, but this time weighted, heavy and hinted with a threat of exhaustion. His movements had slowed, ever so slightly, and when he leaned away it took a bit for Maxwell to not lean forward after him, to cling to for so much longer and silently beg for more comfort. The man's face was drawn, a stressed look about him as his clawed hands drifted away from Maxwell's back and to his arms, almost to shoulders, dull talons giving firm pressured touches.

For a moment his stormy eyes locked with Maxwell's pitch black ones, unreadable and yet searching, and Maxwell sat there, face a mess, cloths a mess, everything that made him _him_ a mess in of itself, and he did not believe there would be a damn thing left for Wilson to find still residing in him.

That didn't seem to stop the other man however, and after a moment Wilson lowered his head, a dull pressure and weight as he laid his forehead against Maxwells, and his stormy eyes had gone soft, tired and entrenched in thoughts Maxwell could never hope to fully understand. For a few moments the two men sat there, held together by the faintest of touch and grip, heads together and hearts far, so very far apart.

And then Wilsons claws gave his shoulder a light squeeze, a slow blink to break the eye contact, and a rather small, relieved smile pulled on the man's lips.

"There's a small empty campsite nearby, if you want to stay there. It'll just be us tonight."

Maxwell considered this, slowed and ever so tired of everything and anything, but Wilson watched him patiently, still holding him, still together, and those mismatched puzzle pieces may never, ever fit together-

-but they sure did try.

His slow nod, exhausted sigh and the even slower expel of words - "If you wish, Wilson" - was enough to have his partner carefully untangle himself and then help heave them both to their feet. Maxwell needed a fair bit of help, legs weak and sense of balance still fluctuating in the flutters of his weak heart in his chest, but Wilson situated himself and kept him up, stable and anchored safely. 

Held him up, Maxwell vaguely recognized, and it was such a terrible feeling, the slow rising water pains to fill his chest once more, the even slower growing clinging urge of self acknowledgement- 

-but when Wilson had them start off in a given direction Maxwell went along with him, worn gloved hands clutched firmly with the bone talons and clammy palms of his all too merciful, all too stubborn partner.


End file.
